


Vyasta

by avani



Series: The Vilomita 'Verse [3]
Category: Baahubali (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-12 21:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13555713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avani/pseuds/avani
Summary: Bhalla comes home in the height of summer. He is not the only one.





	Vyasta

Bhalla comes home in the height of summer, sweat trickling down his forehead and plastering strands of his hair to his skin. His men march behind his chariot obediently, shirts already discarded before the unforgiving sun; Bhalla himself only holds on to his armor because a commander-in-chief has a reputation to maintain. The air shimmers with heat, and Bhalla’s heart is at peace.

He sent word ahead, largely because he does not intend to be deprived of a warm meal and his own bed due to his servants’ ignorance, and yet he is surprised to find the courtyard not empty upon his arrival. It’s nothing so elaborate as a formal reception, of course, the King of Mahishmati possessing a commoner’s dread of ceremony, but Baahubali and his Queen wait for him on the steps.

For an instant, Bhalla isn’t sure what to do. He climbs down from his chariot but before he can approach respectfully as he ought to, Baahubali has already come forward to clap him on the shoulder warmly.

“Bulls now,” he says by way of greeting, peering at the beasts of burden that draw Bhalla’s chariot.

“They’ve more strength and endurance,” Bhalla explains. “I tired of having to stop at every outpost along the way to switch horses.”

“If you didn’t drive them to the point of exhaustion, you wouldn’t need to switch horses,” says the Queen sharply, joining her husband, and how Bhalla thinks longingly of the shy, silent women Martand had married in succession. In contrast, the only concession to convention the current Queen has made in the two years of her tenure can be seen in the slight swell of her belly that marks her first child. The rest of the time, she seems to take particular delight in scandalizing the more conservative factions of the court by ensuring her opinion is known to all, wanted or unwanted.

He whistles to a stablehand to make sure his animals are put away, a ploy to give him enough time to think up the perfect rejoinder. He’s only able to form the words, “And if—“ before Baahubali pulls him forward, towards the palace.

“Dinner’s waiting,” he says and Bhalla makes a face. The royal couple’s tastes are notoriously simple, and to Bhalla, whose palate is more developed than a peasant’s, intolerable. Baahubali notices and shakes his head. “The cooks have been asked to prepare your favorites,” he says, and stops, because a guard approaches him.

“Your Majesty!” The man pants. “A visitor! She wishes to meet with you at once…”

Is this what things have come to in Bhalla’s absence, that any stranger can demand an audience with the King at the slightest whim and disrupt all his plans? Considering Baahubali, that is not so surprising. Someone must establish discipline, and it seems this too will fall to Bhalla.

“The King,” he barks, “has prior obligations. Unless she rides before an invading army, your visitor can wait.”

The guard looks anxiously at Baahubali, who nods gently. “I can try to tell her so, Lord, but I doubt she will listen.”

“Then I will see her,” offers the Queen. “I won’t be more than a few minutes—“

But this proves unnecessary, given the sudden commotion at the garden gates. A solidly built, middle-aged woman advances on them, appearing nothing more noteworthy than a merchant’s wife on a mission. The Queen, however, disagrees; she turns suddenly, starkly white.

In a heartbeat, Baahubali is at his wife’s side, arms protectively around her. Bhalla is spared the usual cooing and cuddling that ensues, however, as the Queen’s attention is fixed on the new arrival.

“I thought—my brother led me to believe that you were dead.”

“A falsehood,” the stranger replies bluntly, “made at my request. It suited my purposes.”

The Queen’s eyes close; her hands tighten into fists. At last she opens both, and takes a step beyond the cradle of her husband’s arms.

“Be that as it may—I am glad to see you well. I have,” she swallows, one hand unconsciously going to rest on her belly, “I have thought of you often, these last few months.”

“And never were you far from my thoughts, child, in all these years.” Not much of a reassurance, as these things go, but it satisfies the Queen. She extends her arms in genuinely warm welcome.

“You must stay,” she says, face open and young, “as long as you please. I have so much to tell you. This is my husband--”

Noting his cue, Baahubali chimes, “Any friend of Devasena’s is a friend of mine. I welcome you to Mahishmati.”

The stranger smiles. “I have long dreamed of coming home.” Before Bhalla can completely think through the implications of those words, the stranger continues to the Queen, “And Kattappa? I trust you would not be so at leisure,  had you not kept your vow and freed him.”

That name is taken with altogether too much familiarity. Instead of gratitude at the royal couple’s generosity, this woman seems to stand in the midst of the courtyard of the royal palace with the utmost confidence. And out of the corner of his eye, Bhalla notices a crowd of courtiers, all of his father’s generation, gather around her with growing reverence.

He does not linger to hear the first whisper of “Sivagami Devi!” He does not need to.

*

Baahubali had offered Bhalla his pick of apartments at the beginning of his reign. Bhalla thinks Baahubali might have expected him to choose the heir’s luxurious chambers, or at least a suite in the royal wing. Duty might have driven the King, but that did not explain his disappointment when Bhalla pronounced himself content with those rooms set aside for the commander-in-chief. But why shouldn’t Bhalla have those chambers? He earned them fairly, by strength and skill and subtlety, not to mention his willingness to betray for Baahubali’s sake.

Bhalla will never admit it, but all he wants from his apartments are to ensure that they were nowhere near where his father’s had been.

Martand had preferred father and son seperated: the better, Bhalla supposes, to stop any scheming against him. But that didn’t stop him taunting Bhalla for being a distant and undutiful child, from wondering loudly how any loving son could go so long without seeing his father. Bijjaladeva would only hem and haw and hold his hands up helplessly, and Bhalla, guilty and miserable, hunch his shoulders to hide his tears.

At last he’d dared take action. He had stolen across the silent palace alone, imaging angry guards and an angrier Martand in every shadow until he found himself on his father’s threshold. But instead of greeting him gladly, Bijjaladeva had only cried out in dismay.

“What are you _doing_?”

“I came to see you,” said Bhalla, confused. “His Majesty said—“

“I know what His Majesty said. Fool boy, can’t you see he was only baiting you?”

He could not. All he knew was: “I wanted to see you.”

His father set down his goblet. “And if you’re found here? What then? What will I say to His Majesty?”

Bhalla looked down at his feet. “I heard His Majesty isn’t the King,” he says at last. “I heard it was your father’s father who was King, and his son after him, and then--”

“You heard correctly,” his father interrupts grimly. “And if you’ve a grain of sense in your skull, you will not repeat such words again.”

“But--”

“But Martand holds our lives in his palm,” says his father, reaching out wildly. Bhalla dodges the blow easily, but the words are unavoidable. “We do as he asks, do you understand me? We follow his commands, we ignore his insults, and we hold onto what power he allows us. To ask for more is foolishness.”

Bhalla frowns. “I won’t bow to anyone.”

“In the end, a severed head bows as well as a servile one. Don’t try the King’s patience. You are always to do what the King says-- _always_!”

Bhalla had listened to his father’s words, had nodded his head in silent agreement, and had honored that promise for years, no matter what it cost him. And then he had broken it, along with so many others, and had his father banished to erase all evidence of his betrayal.

That is what he is.

In the privacy of his apartment, arranged according to his wishes, Bhalla can do precisely as he pleases. He need not wonder what brings Sivagami here now. He need not ponder how best to avoid her. He need only close his eyes and sleep.

*

It’s Baahubali who disrupts his peace. Of course it is; but a royal request, however mildly phrased, is not to be disregarded. The servant might assure him, “Only when you are rested, Lord, His Majesty was very clear that there was no need to rush,” but Bhalla lived alongside Martand long enough to understand the command that must be implied.

At first the meeting seems meant only to discuss what Bhalla had said and done on his latest campaign: reasonable enough, and quickly accomplished. But Bhalla can speak of his victories only so long, and the conversation turns all too soon to the new arrival.

“She visited the Kuntalans often during Devasena’s childhood,” says Baahubali, as though feeling some explanation is due. “She told them nothing of her identity.”

“Doubtless that didn’t figure into her calculations,” Bhalla snarls. “Ignorant pawns are so much more useful.”

“Her intentions at the time,” says Baahubali, eternally charitable, “remain a mystery to me.”

They sit in silence; does Baahubali imagine it companionable? Just when Bhalla tires, and is about to demand to go, Baahubali rumbles, “I don’t know her.”

“What?”

“She saved my life,” says Baahubali. “Without her, I would be dead or worse before I could draw enough breaths to defend myself. I ought to know her. I don’t.”

He looks to Bhalla, as though expecting--sympathy? Likemindedness? Any of those possibilities are foolish. Bhalla draws himself up.

“I owe her nothing,” he snaps, and leaves without waiting to be formally dismissed.

*

It is easier than he expects to avoid Sivagami over the next weeks. Such things never happen in isolation; he knows she must be making efforts of her own. So much the better: he surveys his men, sharpens his blades, studies the latest reports from their spies.

He has no such respite, however, from the presence of Kattappa, that interfering old buffoon. Baahubali favors him, and why should he not? Kattappa’s carefully chosen revelations won him a throne, after all, and overthrew a dynasty. This is why Bhalla feels entirely justified in feeling some trepidations when Kattappa sidles up to him one night as he’s returning from the training yards.

“The moon has risen,” says Kattappa, “and still you have not found your bed.”

Not a word of that sentence is unknown to Bhalla. He grunts, feeling that the only response necessary.

“Your dedication to duty is commendable,” Kattappa continues. “A legacy from your noble mother.”

Bhalla stops short. “Did she bid you arrange a reconciliation?” He considers this and has to laugh: a short, ugly sound, like the last breath of a dying thing. “Of course not. Such a thing should be below the dignity of the great Sivagami Devi.”

“She longs to see you, Your Highness. I know her well—“

“Her longing is such that it waited more than two decades to be fulfilled.” Kattappa opens his mouth once again and desperate, Bhalla blurts out: “Her longing is such that it was Baahubali she took down the river, Baahubali she declared King—“

Kattappa frowns. “I supposed you to possess more honor than to begrudge your liege-lord his throne.”

The old dunce has misunderstood, but Bhalla is grateful for any distraction. “I don’t blame him,” he corrects. “I blame her.”

There is enough of the slave in Kattappa to ensure he says nothing further, but the disappointment with which he regards Bhalla as he stalks away speaks volumes. And is this how it shall be, as long as Sivagami lives among them: such whispers, such suggestions, such not-very-subtle hints as to how he should live up to his filial duty?

Impossible. Unendurable.

Bhalla grits his teeth and makes for the royal wing of the palace.

*

“Forgive us,” the senior guard says firmly, “but we cannot admit you.” Despite his frustration, Bhalla is proud of the man; he expects those he has trained to be so unyielding.

His fellow guard on duty has not learned his lessons so well; he seems to feel explanations are due, even to the Commander-in-Chief. “It’s only, the Queen is with His Majesty at the moment. So you see, my lord, that is why we cannot—“

Bhalla scowls, unimpressed both by the stammer and by the paltry excuse. Among Bhalla’s responsibilities are seeing to palace security, and as such he is more than aware, much to his disgust, that the royal couple lacks the common courtesy to maintain even the facade of keeping separate chambers. The presence of the Queen is nothing so remarkable as to excuse Baahubali from seeing him as he’s requested.

“I suggest,” he snarls, “that you ask once more—” 

Both guards fidget, even the bolder one’s courage faltering in the face of his commander’s wrath; but an escape comes in the form of the Queen, who sweeps calmly through the door.

“My husband is exhausted from a day of caring for his people. You’ll have to content yourself with me.”

So he’s made enough of a nuisance of himself to provoke the Queen to her most protective. That is something, at least.

“You’ll do,” he allows. She raises her eyebrows—there is no love lost between them—and gestures him forward into her receiving rooms.

“Wine?” she offers briskly, and for a moment, all Bhalla can remember are the stench of strong drink that always surrounded Father.

“No,” he says, voice hoarse. 

The Queen shrugs and replaces the wine jug untouched. “The child doesn’t care for it either,” she comments with a grimace, as though he had inquired. As though she fancies he takes any interest in the baby she bears, save to hope dutifully that it be a son for the sake of the succession. 

There are dark circles around her eyes, however, and her mouth twists into a weary scowl. He wonders if it’s due to her condition or-- or if other causes are responsible. 

“What is it you want?” asks the Queen without further preamble, the time for half-hearted pleasantries over.  Bhalla prefers it that way.

“Sivagami Devi has remained here long enough. I would have you request that she leave.”

“You assume,” says the Queen, “that she has anywhere else to go.”

“I am certain,” he counters, “that she must. She is nothing but resourceful.”

“No? But why else would she come here?”

Bhalla stares at her; there is a bitterness in her voice that he never before heard, one that only grows as she sees his surprise.

“I expect you imagined you were the only one with a grievance against your mother,” the Queen continues, emphasizing those last two words pointedly. “My husband wonders why she refuses to speak of her past and remains uncertain whether or not to fully trust her—and I lived more than a decade thinking she was dead, with her knowledge and consent. Anger at being denied a throne seems to me only one more complaint.”

More fool him, to expect anything from these two but sanctimonious judgment! He manages to keep his voice level, but not without some effort: “I salute your highnesses on your high-mindedness. I am nothing so forgiving.”

The Queen forgets herself enough to huff impatiently. “It has nothing to do with forgiveness!” she snaps. “And everything to do with her wisdom—her experience—“ her hands drift to her belly again, apparently unconsciously; “I have need of these things, no matter from whom they originate. I will not let fear of my own feelings keep me from them.”

Bhalla stills. Slowly, deliberately, he says, “You forget, Your Majesty, that I am one of the Royal House of Mahishmati, by both birth and breeding. We are not known for running from that frightens us.”

An insult for an insult; the Queen’s famously short temper, much to his surprise, does not rise to the bait.

“And I,” she says, “am born of Kuntala.” Her lips flatten into a smile. “Say what you will about us, we are, at least, always as honest with ourselves as we are with others.”

Bhalla bows his head in defeat.

*

He is dismissed from the Queen’s presence not long after, she no doubt returning to her royal husband’s arms to admit all. This leaves Bhalla with nowhere else to go, save that place which he least wishes to be. 

Still, an accusation of cowardice is a most effective goad; the Queen knows this as well as he does. He attempts to be annoyed at her understanding, and is not entirely successful--and then, he is at Sivagami Devi’s threshold, and all other emotion fades.

The doors are opened immediately on his arrival; the guards at her door dare not defy him. She waits there for him, and he remembers that she had sent Kattappa to persuade him to visit her. He imagines she must be satisfied at her success, confident that he will comply with any other demand she might make to him, as she assuredly will--

“Why are you here?” asks Sivagami Devi, and he steps back in surprise. 

“Pretending ignorance does not become you. Did not you send--” Only the knowledge that Baahubali does not care for the phrase keeps  _ your dog _ from his lips“--old Kattappa to fetch me?”

Her face is expressionless. “I did no such thing. If anything, I asked that he not interfere in my affairs.” The ghost of a smile darts against her lips, and Bhalla’s heart aches that a servant can bring such emotion to her face when her own son cannot. “It seems he has grown no less stubborn with time.”

Bhalla straightens, intending to declare “If you have no need of me, then I shall take my leave” and sweep out with all the dignity of a Commander-in-Chief, but her face is almost familiar. Like a child, he blurts out the only question that matters, that has ever mattered:

“Why did you leave me behind?”  _ With Martand, with Mahishmati, with Father _ ? “Why didn’t you take me with you?”

The question does not surprise Sivagami Devi, but at least she does him the honor of pretending to consider her response. “Because I was young,” she says at last, “and foolish and angry, and it seemed to me that Mahishmati had a better claim on me than motherhood.”

“That is hardly an answer,” Bhalla says, “and certainly not an apology.”

She meets his gaze squarely. “Do you need one truly?”

And there, at least is something to be grateful about: if he had been raised her son, he might have cowered before such her fearsome countenance, suffocated his confusion and frustration until it festered. This Bhalla, who looks upon her as a stranger, recognizes her posturing for what it is and feels only amusement.

“Yes,” he says, as firmly as when he demands absolute surrender upon the battlefield, and Sivagami bows her head. She appears frail, all of a sudden, almost fallible, almost someone he could have loved. 

“Forgive me,” she tells him, the words years too late but spoken at last, and something within Bhalla’s chest goes tight, as though a long-forgotten wound had finally knit itself into a scar. 

Sudden tenderness makes his voice go gruff when he asks: “How long will it be?”

Sivagami glowers. “I beg your pardon?”

Another bubble of laughter rises in his chest at how easily she imagines he might be fooled. “I am enough like you,” he pauses, long enough that the word  _ Mother _ is apparent by its absence, “that I can guess the only thing that would bring you back to a kingdom that looked upon your defeat, no matter how years had passed. And whatever the King and his Queen might think, it is not the arrival of a royal heir.” He hesitates. “How long do you have?”

She closes her eyes. “The physicians cannot be certain of the course of my illness,” she admits reluctantly. “Months, perhaps. As much as a year.” Her voice is harsh and triumphant. “I will see the throne secure before I die.”

Enough of a reason for any other woman, perhaps, but not one as proud as Sivagami. That is still not enough to bring her back. She could just as easily have heard such a confirmation of her victory from spies or simple gossip. 

“And?” Bhalla prompts. 

(“She threw you away,” his father snarled, spilling wine from his cup in his agitation, “she threw you away and called you no child of hers, all because you share my blood--”)

“And--” If her words are slow, her gaze is unsteady and unashamed “--I would see my son, if I may.”

That is all he needs. That is all he has ever needed.

“I forgive you, Mother,” says Bhalla, and takes her hands. 

**Author's Note:**

> Vyasta - (Sanskrit) reverse, opposed to, divided, distinct.  
> * Vilomita!verse Bhalla was one of the most interesting characters I got to explore in this particular AU--and unfortunately one of the ones who got most of his scenes, backstory, and motivations cut in the story edits I had to make to the original. So it seems only fitting that the sequel focus more on him than any of the other characters, particularly as, the way I see it, his role reversal is with Kattappa in the original--Bijjaladeva has done just as good as job as ever of giving his son Issues, but in this universe, they manifest as a strange psychological compulsion to be loyal to the King at all costs -- which, as I hope this makes apparent, also plays into his relationships with Amarendra, Devasena, and even Sivagami here. (I love talking about the characters in this universe, so any further questions/discussion in the comment would be fantastic!)  
> * Special thanks to tuuliki/LucyLovecraft for pointing out that of course Bhalla would have weird hangups with alcohol given his father. It was a perfect character detail I wanted to include here!


End file.
